


chaos, she politely knocked (so i opened the door)

by egare



Category: Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Alexis | Quackity-centric, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Buried Alive, But He Gets Better, Gaslighting, Gen, Manipulation, Post-Butcher's Army Execution, Shapeshifter Alexis | Quackity, Winged Alexis | Quackity, all the Major Character Deaths are just quackity except one (1), dream finding a new person to manipulate: it’s free real estate, i saw quackity with over 600 deaths and made that man immortal, no one has a good time but counterpoint: it's funny, that man's a duck i don't make the rules, the most messed up Found Family you've seen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-30
Updated: 2021-02-23
Packaged: 2021-03-11 01:02:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 7
Words: 16,875
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28426716
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/egare/pseuds/egare
Summary: He had lost Tommy in the aftermath of Logstedshire's destruction. He had found Quackity, surviving against all odds, in the fallout of a failed execution.And in that moment he knew,this was something he could work with.
Relationships: Alexis | Quackity & Clay | Dream, Alexis | Quackity & Luke | Punz, Alexis | Quackity & TommyInnit
Comments: 76
Kudos: 320





	1. i sense deception to come

Quackity woke up in darkness. Wood creaked around him as he attempted to adjust, wings protesting the position they had been in while he had been asleep, awkwardly pinned beneath his body without consideration for how he lay. The space he found himself in was small, elbows hitting the surface in front of him as he made an effort to reach his face and assess the damage he had taken during his fight against Technoblade. One piece at a time, the evidence put itself together in his mind. The darkness, the compact space, the dust he could feel irritating his eyes and scratching his throat. The complete and utter silence.

He was in a coffin.

_“What do we do when one of us dies?” They sat together the night after the coup, recovering in the ruins of a country they once had; they would rebuild, become something better, but for now Mexican L’Manberg lay in waste around them. Karl’s hand ghosted over the single heart on Quackity’s wrist, a stark contrast to the three crimson on Sapnap’s and the two on his own. “Like, a final death. Canonical and shit.”_

_Sapnap didn’t look up from his communicator, responding instantly, “My funeral better be a rave.”_

_“At least we don’t have to worry about Quackity. How many times have you died already?”_

_“W-Well, that’s-“ Quackity laughed, embarrassment evident, “That’s a bit p—“_

_“More than fifty?” Karl goaded, ignoring the way Quackity rubbed the back of his neck, not making eye contact. Sapnap snorted as he continued, “More than a hundred?”_

_And Quackity muttered beneath his breath, “Give or take four hundred.”_

_“You’ve died five hundred times?” Disbelief and amusement worked in tandem to produce the wheeze that escaped Karl’s lungs, leaning against Quackity to focus on breathing rather than staying upright._

_“How do you die FIVE HUNDRED—“ Sapnap couldn’t catch his breath long enough to finish the question, dissolving into a fit of laughter alongside his companions. They took a moment to collect themselves before Karl asked, in a moment of unexpected consideration,_

_“What’s your limit, then?”_

_And Quackity responded, equally serious, “I don’t know.”_

He was panicking. It was a distant realization, his mind registering the way his heart rate spiked, taking note of his throat closing and the tightness in his chest that felt like he was at death’s door. There was, what, an hour’s worth of air? Maybe two, if he was able to slow his breathing down; he couldn’t waste it panicking. He needed to get out of this.

How the hell was he supposed to get out of this?

Dust rained in from the cracks of planks hastily put together, the weight of the soil above pressing down and testing the limit of the coffin that held him. His burial was done in a hurry, judging from the quality. If he focused, he could pick up the smell of petrichor, suggesting that he wasn’t buried deep enough for the dirt around him to escape the effects of rain. Had it been Technoblade, who had buried him? Had he believed Quackity dead and thought himself to be a decent enough man to at least give his opponent a funeral?

He was getting lightheaded. 

Quackity closed his eyes, focusing on his breathing. Each inhale seemed harder than the one before, and nausea was making itself evident with the waning supply of oxygen. What number would this be, then? He had to be in the six hundreds by now; despite how often he experienced it, he couldn’t help the spike of fear at the thought of dying. He opened his eyes, unfocused on the grain of the wood that his adjusted sight could now pick out. At least through his death he could escape the coffin, he supposed. 

He let the darkness take him.

He woke with a gasp. The world was dark around him, and he couldn’t breathe.

What? _What?_ His lungs were already burning as panic returned tenfold, reaching up to scratch at the lid that kept him trapped, wasting what little air he had to scream as he reached around and tried to find something to use. His hands hit the sides of the coffin, and it felt like they were closing in around him. He could feel his nails break as he attempted to claw his way to a freedom he would not be able to reach.

Death came quicker, now, life lasting only as long as he could hold the breath that accompanied him during his revival.

With an agitated groan he held his breath, methodically feeling around in an attempt to find an answer to the countless questions that had presented themselves. He reached beneath him, and twin waves of understanding and dread washed over him; his head rested on a pillow, a comfort he had not previously noticed in his panic. And under the discomfort of his wings, he could feel the dip of a mattress— A bed had been implemented into the coffin. If there had been enough air, he would have let out a sob; but Quackity let out a shaky exhale, expending the last of his oxygen for this life and shutting his eyes as if it would help against the burning in his lungs.

Distantly, he heard the sound of metal hitting stone. Or was it the pick meeting his teeth?

It was dark again.

He heard creaking, and could make out the faintest sign of the wood no longer depressing beneath the weight of soil above. He could hear his heart beating in his ears, body straining as he held his breath and considered whether it would be useful to waste the last of his breath to call out to whatever was changing the world above him. The tightness was returning to his chest, and with his last breath he gasped,

“Help.”

When he returned to consciousness he immediately shut his eyes, the light that shed itself from a setting sun unfamiliar and blinding. Quackity could hear an exasperated sigh, and the sound of someone adjusting their stance; it took a moment for him to come to the conclusion that the shifting meant someone was there with him, and he struggled to open his eyes enough to see who it was.

“C’mon, get up....”

He could make out the green jacket, hood pulled over the wearer’s head and mask covering their face as they focused in on him. Dream squatted above him, elbows resting on his knees and head cocked to the side as if he was considering whether Quackity was alive or not. The tension in his shoulders bled away as he realized Quackity was looking at him, confirming that he was breathing.

“You’re alive.” His intonation suggested disbelief, not expecting to see Quackity attempt to pull himself to a seated position. He took a moment to collect himself, lungs delighted to reexperience fresh air before he wheezed out,

“How…?” Quackity’s throat was hoarse, pain lingering with the last dozen or so respawns. _How had he found him?,_ he wanted to ask; he hadn’t been shouting loud enough to be heard and saved, had given up on yelling after what felt like hours of death and revival. But Dream misunderstood his incomplete question, answering another,

“It’s been about a week.” That surprised him. If not the other members of the Butcher Army, then at least Sapnap and Karl would have looked for him, surely? They knew he couldn’t die, they knew he was alive somewhere— “Everyone just figured you’d left after you couldn’t kill Techno.”

Dream pulled a bottle from his pack, leaning down to hand it to Quackity; they were both aware of the way his body shook as he accepted the bottle, two hands cupping it in an attempt to keep it steady as he put the mouth to his lips. It hurt to swallow, the contents of the bottle briefly threatening to come back up, but Quackity could feel the effects wash over him in a soothing warmth that traveled through his body, a breeze blowing away the fogginess that had made itself a home in his mind. His eyes met the drawn on ones of the mask, each expecting more from the other; Quackity gave in first, offering a cautious,

“...thanks.”

Dream seemed content with the short expression of gratitude and he stretched out a hand, offering help in leaving the shallow grave. “I have more healing pots back home. Can you stand?”

Quackity quirked an eyebrow, “I thought you were homeless.”

“Why does everyone think I’m— no, okay? I have a base, and there’s plenty of things to help you regain your strength.” Quackity laughed at his exasperation, looking at the hand that was extended in an offer of assistance. His eyes narrowed, gaze flickering up once more to the mask.

“I have a chestful back home—”

“I wouldn’t go back to L’Manberg for a while.” Dream interrupted, catching to confusion that crossed Quackity’s face before he was able to collect himself, “Tubbo’s been on edge since he found out Tommy died.”

The confusion returned once more. “Wait, Tommy’s dead?”

He tilted his head side to side, choosing his words carefully. “We haven’t found the body yet, but he found a tower where Tommy had been staying, so.... yeah.”

Quackity let out a low whistle. It wasn’t that far of a leap to assume he was dead, then. He knew exile was hard on the kid, but he had visited only a few days before the execution. Tommy had seemed fine, had gone on for an hour about a friend he found in the Nether that stayed with him for a few days. “I’ll just go to El Rapids—”

“Sapnap and Karl went on vacation together, closed it off to make sure no one could grief it when they were gone.” There was a beat of silence as Dream let him consider what had just been said, adding on, “I wouldn’t have offered my place if you were just able to go home.”

“Is this a trap?” It felt foolish, to ask so bluntly.

“Would I admit if it was?” He could almost imagine the eye roll, “C’mon, Quackity. You’re smart. Why would I dig you up if I was just going to kill you?”

“What about all the shit you pulled, huh? You were helping him escape. You hired _Punz_ to—”

“I might have been helping Techno, but that doesn’t mean I wanted you dead.” Dream spoke as if he was explaining a simple concept to a toddler, amused by the other’s inability to grasp the subject. “Is it so bad that I didn’t want my allies to die?”

He scoffed, “ _Allies_ is a strong word—”

“Is it so bad that I didn’t want _anyone_ to die?” Dream amended, “I’m just trying to keep the peace here. I hadn’t seen him bury you. I would have stopped him if I did, y’know, given you a proper funeral. Now c’mon, get up. I don’t want to be out here at night.”

There was a tension in their relationship brought on by an understanding of each other. While unequal in physical combat, the two of them were able to recognize the skills the other had in conflict more subtle, the silver tongues and smooth-spoken persuasion they wielded just as dangerous as a blade. Quackity had watched the way the puppeteer pulled just the right strings to get the outcome that benefited him the most, directing his way to victory. In contrast, Dream had experienced firsthand Quackity’s skill in reasoning that, paired with a natural charisma, made him a dangerous adversary in debate. Dream knew Quackity could tear his way through most manipulation, one sentence able to cut away strings of his that had tied themselves around the throats and wrists of his pawns. And Quackity knew that Dream was fully capable of subtle influences he would not register, manipulations hidden beneath friendly gestures over a long period of time that would only be noticeable when he lay in the destruction and chaos the man’s manipulation caused, hindsight reprimanding him for not recognizing the signs sooner. 

Dream and Quackity knew they were not friends; their skillsets were antithetical to one another, made to unveil attempts of subtle influences and convert arguments of reasonable logic to defensive, emotional outbursts. Despite his previous attempt at stating otherwise, Quackity knew they weren’t even allies. Their goals were posted opposite of each other, one attempting to lead New L’Manberg to glory, the other attempting to tear it down. There was no reason he could think of for Dream to be helping Quackity and yet there he was, gloves dirtied with the soil that had kept him trapped, shovel abandoned to the side of the grave his opponent had thrown him in.

He accepted the outstretched hand, getting to his feet. And behind his mask, Dream smiled.


	2. the first step of my descent

“Your house is shit.”

“I will literally kick you out.”

“Did you make this like, yesterday?”

“It’s an inconspicuous hidden base—”

“It’s ugly, is what it is.”

“I’m putting you back in your grave. C’mon, get up.” Dream pulled him up by the arm, lifting him off the bed; any complaint was hidden beneath laughter as Quackity was allowed to sink back down, pull the blankets up to his chest once more.

The healing process was slow, days blurring together and marked only by potions that were drunk and food that was choked down despite not being hungry. Strength potions and mandatory laps around the base helped return feeling to his legs in less than a week; regeneration and time healed his mouth and throat, giving him back his ability to speak while not strengthened by potions. Some days were better than others, Quackity fueled by a desire to move on and having to be limited by Dream to ensure he didn’t hurt himself in his enthusiasm. Other days he couldn’t will his body to move, and couldn’t see the room around him as anything other than the cramped coffin that had held and killed him for a week without rest.

Most days were not as binary. Quackity would shuffle along like a child learning how to walk for the first time, legs unable to fully support him; he would go until every step pained him and then go ten steps farther before sitting where he had ended up; most often he was in the forest behind the house, taking a break and focusing his attention on breathing rather than the burning sensation that made itself known as a consequence for his recklessness. He would have a moment’s peace, ten minutes of solitude before Dream cast a shadow over him, standing with a hand outstretched and helping him home.

Today was one of those days, the oak around him not as familiar as he continued farther each walk he took. He had gotten as far as the stream that ran through the forest, settling down on the trunk of a cut-down tree and taking a moment to catch his breath with only the sound of trickling water keeping him company. His legs ached, and alongside the tightness in his chest grew a frustration that he couldn’t quite contain.

“Fifteen minutes, not bad.” There went his moment of peace.

“You didn’t have to keep an eye on me. I’m walking just fine.” He snapped, turning to look at Dream on the other side of the stream. Where his presence once agitated Quackity, it was now accompanied only by slight disgust; he looked away when Dream stepped over to his side of the stream, hands still in his pockets, mask betraying nothing.

“It’s cloudy, and you have one of my swords,” Dream countered, “It takes less time for me to keep an eye on you than to go look for enough ancient debris to make a new one.”

“Wow, not worried about me dying, just about your sword?” He amplified his dramatics, clutching at his heart, “Worried only about material goods, not about your  _ ally,  _ it still hurts every time I come back—”

“You know, you never did explain to me how you do that—” Dream interrupted, grin audible.

He huffed, dodging the unasked question, “— but I wouldn’t have died. I could have just flown away, saved your precious sword.”

“With those things?” Dream seemed doubtful, the mask turning slightly as he glanced at Quackity’s wings. 

“Size doesn’t matter—” The quip got a laugh in response, a hand outstretched.

“You’re disgusting, get up.” Quackity accepted the help, a hand lightly pushing against his chest and keeping him balanced as he stumbled forward. They took a moment to adjust, Quackity’s arm thrown around Dream’s shoulders as he leaned his weight against the other man. “What was that about you walking just fine?”

“Shut up.” He grumbled as they began to walk, stepping over footsteps that still marked his original path to the stream, sunken into mud and yet to be covered up. Their trip was quiet, moving at a slower pace than Quackity had originally entered the forest, slowly raising his hackles with each break he had to take, “I fucking hate this.”

“It’s going to take some time to recover from being  _ buried alive,  _ Quackity—”

“That doesn’t mean I have to enjoy hiding out in the middle of nowhere with  _ you _ .”

The two went quiet as they walked, each of them wanting to ask questions but not wanting to break the fragile silence that fell over the duo in a way that could have been considered almost comfortable. Their walk was interrupted with no more than a few murmured comments, warnings about uneven ground and requests to pause for a few seconds, offers of strength potions and denials of the suggestion; as the house came into view Dream paused, a hand reaching out to keep Quackity standing as he adjusted to their sudden halt. Nothing looked out of the ordinary for the stone and wood home, other than a few chickens running through the wheat where they should have been penned up; Quackity focused in, trying to figure out what had made Dream stop.

“Huh.” It took a moment to recognize the person standing at the door, but the white jacket and gold chain brought with it memories of an interrupted execution, dynamite that threatened to take them out alongside their prisoner. Even at their distance Punz met his gaze, and for a moment Quackity almost thought he saw sympathy in the man’s eyes; Dream was already moving the two of them forward once more.

“You’re here early.” Dream said in greeting, unbothered by the mercenary’s appearance as he continued toward the door, unlocking it and leading Quackity inside; Punz trailed behind, giving them space as Dream helped Quackity to his room, setting him down on the bed. He stayed watching Quackity, setting food and potions on the nightstand and putting one in his hands. “I’ll be back in an hour. Do you need anything?”

“It’s fine.” He was looking at Punz again, eyes narrowed.  _ What was he doing here?  _ He had almost forgotten that the two of them were allies, and had put Punz’s interruption ( _ At Dream’s request,  _ a part of his mind reminded him) to the side as he focused on recovering from his week of consecutive, relentless deaths. But the memories were brought to the forefront of his mind now that the man stood in front of him, and he couldn’t help but wonder what they were planning, watching them leave.

He hadn’t noticed before but, as the faint  _ click _ of the mechanism sounded throughout the room, he realized the door locked from the outside.

It had been less than an hour when the door unlocked, swinging open and revealing Punz on the other side; he gave a nod of greeting before turning back around to leave, giving a final look over his shoulder to make sure Quackity could stand and walk. He felt like he was interrupting something as he followed, watching Dream shuffle through chests and drawers downstairs on a path that led him in the kitchen, removing pouches of dried meats and vegetables. Quackity sat on one of the counters, letting his legs dangle below as he watched the two of them move about the room, filling their individual bags with supplies.

“So, who else knows I’m here?” 

Dream paused. He could see it in the way that Quackity boosted his act of confidence, sitting rigid but wincing whenever he shifted; he didn’t want anyone to know where he was when he was injured. “I trust Punz with my life, so I trust him with yours. Stop worrying, no one else knows you’re here.”

“You know how ominous that sounds, right?”

“It was meant to be comforting.”

“Well, you fucking failed.” 

A huff of laughter and a low whistle from Punz interrupted the two of them as he held up an apple, dipped gold and shimmering with enchantments. Quackity craned his neck to see, curiosity piqued, and was surprised to see more apples— just as glittering, just as gold— in the drawer.   


“Don’t take all of them.” Dream instructed, pulling a few for his own stash before shutting the drawer with the expectation that Punz would move his hand. He had returned to the living room and opened a bow display case, spidersilk iridescent and shimmering as he held the weapon up to the window. Quackity tore his gaze from the bow and looked to the wielder as he asked,

“Where are you headed?”

“Got a trip planned, be gone a few days.” was the response, tone casual. Quackity scoffed.

“That’s all I get to know?”

“There’s enough ingredients in storage if you run out of pots.” Dream continued, returning to the kitchen. He was pulling at a trapdoor and heading down, but paused before his head dipped beneath the ground, considering something. Looking over to Punz, the mercenary shrugged, and Dream went into more detail, keeping up a friendly tone, “I sent Punz to look into something for me. It’s… possible that Tommy could still be alive.”

He continued down the ladder to the cellar and Quackity hopped off of the counter, peering down to argue properly. “The fuck? Shouldn’t we tell someone about this? Tell Tubbo?”

“And get his hopes up?” Dream countered, reaching into a barrel and pulling out something Quackity couldn’t quite identify, small enough to fit in a closed fist. “We don’t know anything for sure."

“Fuck, we have to— we have to make a search party, or something—“

“What do you think we’re packing for?” He exited up the ladder, kicking the trapdoor down behind him as he began to work with Punz to close the chests and drawers of the kitchen. The two of them took their individual bags, clearing the room and taking their things out front. “If he’s still alive, Punz can find him. We don’t have to drag others into it if it turns out we’re just finding his body.”

But there was something in the way he moved, mask not even vaguely turning in Quackity’s direction, his movements less smooth than usual as he deposited his bag near the door, leaning the bow against it. He turned to continue through the house but was stopped by Quackity blocking the archway, arms crossed.

“What else?” Quackity demanded, stepping forward, “What else do you know?”

The mask didn’t move for a moment, the wearer taking time to study the person he spoke to. The rigidity of his posture had returned, a firm resolution on his face; Dream sighed, offering reluctantly, “...we think we found some signs of where he’s gone. North. Toward the Arctic.”

His fists clenched. “To Technoblade?”

A nod.

“I need to be there.” 

Dream chuckled through gritted teeth, “Well—”

“I’m coming with you guys!”

“I don’t think that’s the smartest idea, Quackity.” His hesitation was replaced with a firm rejection, mask turning away. 

“Why the hell not?” The mask turned to him and Quackity took a deep breath, continuing at a lower volume, “I can help.”

“You can barely walk thirty minutes without potions.”

“So I’ll take the fucking potions with me!” He countered, “If anything, it’ll help me when I take my  _ axe  _ to his d—”

“I’m not going to fight, if he  _ is _ with Techno.” Dream cut him off, continuing with carefully chosen words, “He’s still an ally, for now. An ally to me _ , _ at least, one that needs to be kept  _ alive _ .”

“So what, we just confirm Tommy’s a traitor and  _ leave _ ?”

“ _ Punz and I, _ ” He stressed, “will assess the situation. See if he went to Techno willingly or if he’s a hostage. He could also be dead. Or he could be being manipulated.”

“By his own brother?”

Dream tilted his head side to side, weighing Quackity’s point, “Techno’s said plenty of times they aren’t  _ actually _ related. But I know well enough that if you validate him, Tommy’ll be on your side in an instant. Techno might have acted all brotherly with him and got him on his side.”

“Doesn’t mean he can’t be brought back if we just  _ kill _ Techno—”

“I’m not going to ask you to put aside your grudge for my own plans.” He interrupted, tone suggesting to let him finish, “But I’m also not going to let it get in the way of what I need to do.”

_ Could you put aside killing Technoblade for  _ **_one minute_ ** _ , Quackity? We have more important things we have to worry about right now! _

Quackity considered his warning, suppressing his desire for vengeance beneath his want for information as he questioned, voice softer,“And what if Tommy’s being manipulated? You just gonna get him and throw him in exile again?”

He let out an exasperated sigh, “He still needs to be exiled. But that doesn’t mean we should just leave him with  _ Technoblade _ . And he’ll have me again. You too, I guess. If it’s really bad, we can talk to Tubbo about getting him visiting hours. We just... have to see if he’s even alive, first.”

“We?” Quackity repeated, smirking. Dream rolled his eyes, tossing an empty bag in his direction.

“We’re heading out at sunrise."  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> dream: any ideas  
> quackity: [raises hand]  
> dream: any ideas that aren't "kill technoblade"  
> quackity: [lowers hand]
> 
> can you tell my speciality is dialogue because there's like, one paragraph in this chapter max?


	3. all have been led astray

Quackity hated the cold.

“Why hasn’t he lit up the area yet?” Punz complained, running his sword through another zombie; his movements didn’t linger, turning to the next mob and bringing it down before the first had even finished disintegrating. Quackity was holding his own well enough, but had to echo the sentiment, annoyed as much as Punz was that their trip had been slowed with fighting. Every minute they spent fighting mobs meant another minute in the snow, allowing the cold to seep into his bones and agitate his still-healing body. If Techno had just lit up the damn area around his house—

“You need any help? You’re kinda just getting munched on.” The man in question was mocking them from his door, arms crossed and stance casual as he leaned against stone and wood. It put Quackity on edge, to see him so calm; it almost felt like an act, having never seen Techno anything less than hypervigilant. 

_ A room of stone and emptied chests; he had only heard about this place in passing, a betrayal that happened before his time, a memory that made hands ghost scars that hadn’t left upon their respawn. But now he stood in the final control room gripping his axe and facing down Technoblade; a cold washed over him, straightening him up as he spoke about justice and the nation they were building, contrasting the heat and energy of a panicked man, unarmored and weaponless. _

_ Despite his advantage he still found himself on his back, weapon on the other side of the room and a pickaxe (the same pick that would later help dig his grave—) swinging down from above,  _ **_always_ ** _ from someone who stood above him— _

“We were just coming to talk to you.” A hand landed on his shoulder in passing as Dream moved forward, breaking Quackity out of his thoughts and silently directing him to follow as he trailed the masked man up the stairs.

“The zombies are very rude….” Techno was continuing to speak but his words didn’t quite reach Quackity’s ears, drowned beneath the sound of a racing heartbeat. Their places had flipped since the last time he had seen the man, Technoblade now dawning full netherite armor, Quackity armorless and wielding only an iron axe. Not for the first time he cursed Dream’s suggestion that him and Punz go armorless, understanding that it was for the comfort of the person they were visiting, but also fully aware that he was like a sitting duck waiting to be skewered and feasted upon before the end of the night.

“Well, I’ve actually never been here, so.” A quiet accusation from Dream, masked beneath a lighthearted chuckle alongside Technoblade’s own. A question, on why he had made a place the admin had never seen, on what he was hiding.

“Oh yeah! Well come in, come in, make yourself at home. That is my visible enderman—” 

Quackity’s breath caught in his throat as he felt a light pressure on his chest and he looked away from the enderman, eyes focusing instead on the netherite sword meant to keep him from crossing into the threshold of the house. It was held loosely in Techno’s grip, as if it were only resting against something rather than being used to threaten him into immobility; the piglin continued with his tour of the house, pointing out chests and boxes in their immediate vicinity, gesturing down a hall toward where the kitchen apparently was. He only addressed the situation when neither Punz nor Dream responded; Techno kept his gaze trained on Dream’s mask, as if he would be able to make eye contact through the quartz. “He stays outside.”

The movement was miniscule, a slight tilt of the head that scrutinized him more than any heavy gaze ever could. He was waiting for an outburst, an indignant complaint from Quackity about anything from the temperature outside to the unnecessary distrust of a man who promised beforehand to play nice; but Quackity simply straightened up, taking a step back and crossing over once more to the cold outdoors. His eyes remained trained on Dream, who gave a single nod, translated as approval by Quackity and a silent order by Punz. Something crossed Punz’s face as he muttered to him, a quiet, “We’ll be quick.”

And the door was shut on his face.

He waited for a moment, staying silent and listening to the sound of footsteps retreating farther into the house. Taking a deep breath he turned and made his way down the porch stairs, sitting himself on the bottom step; he leaned against the cool stone of the ground floor’s walls, inhaling, and letting out as loudly as he could without being heard by those indoors, “ _ Fuck! _ ” 

Quackity had ruined the progress he made on healing, he realized bitterly. Every strength potion he took only delayed the process, and he had half a week’s worth in his bag to get him through a trip that resulted in him just sitting outside and waiting around. He groaned, looking at the arctic wasteland around him that was going to be the cause of prolonged bedrest when they got back home. There was a small pond in the distance, looked to be filled with turtles and squids; even from here he could make out the shape of a cobblestone tower, standing tall a—

Wait a minute. He would recognize those shitty cobblestone towers anywhere.

“Big Q?”

“Tommy?” He looked around at the whispered words, unease washing over him when the source of the voice was not easily distinguished. But it definitely sounded like Tommy, which presented only one logical conclusion. “Oh God, you’re dead.”

“No, I—”

Quackity put his head in his hands, “Your voice guided me to your final resting spot, to find your body and bring it back to New L’Manberg—”

“Big Q, wait, I’m just—”

“I can’t believe you were murdered by Technoblade, how am I gonna tell Tubbo? How do we tell Philza both his sons are dead?”

“Seriously, just— wait, Phil’s not my dad— let me just expl—”

“I’ll make sure you have a proper burial, Tommy, I swear—”

“Relax, man, I’m just invisible!”

“What?” Something brushed against his arm and he jumped, reaching for his axe; it was grabbed before he could unsheathe it, tossed to the side. If he was muttering prayers for protection beneath his breath, no one living was around to hear it. When he felt his beanie start to move without his permission he reached up, holding it firmly on his head. “Tommy? Really?”

There was a sigh of relief from his left. “Dream’s just looking for me, so I made myself invisible, yeah?”

His words sank in slowly. He… wasn’t dead, just hiding. From Dream?  _ With Technoblade?  _ His metaphorical feathers ruffled, Quackity snapped, “Yeah, Tommy,  _ we’re _ looking for you!”

And there was only silence.

“We?” Quackity’s anger dissipated, caught off guard by the quiet voice he would have never associated with Tommy. “Why are… why are you with Dream? Wait, don’t— don’t tell him I’m here, Big Q. You can’t— he can’t know I’m here—”

“So y—” Despite speaking at a lower volume than Tommy, his response was interrupted by a frantic shushing; Quackity looked through the windows of the house, trying to catch sight of a shadow that would indicate where they were. He continued on, significantly quieter than before, “So you’re just hiding with Technoblade now? Tommy, did you forget what he did to L’Manberg? To Tubbo?”

“It’s different!” Tommy defended, “He’s helping me get back my discs!”

“And how’s he gonna get those discs, Tommy? You think he’s just gonna walk back into New L’Manberg and nicely ask Tubbo for them?” Quackity struggled to find what he would point out next from the list of reasons being with Technoblade was an awful idea before a realization hit, “Fuck, Tubbo thinks you’re  _ dead _ , man!”

“I’m working on it!” Tommy was slowly becoming visible again, and his eyes were trained entirely on the door to Techno’s home. “I’m gonna get back to L’Manberg and I’ll tell him then.”

There were so many things wrong with his thought process. How did he intend to get back to New L’Manberg, why did he think  _ Technoblade  _ of all people would be the best person to turn to for help? If his goal was just to go back to L’Manberg, then— “Why’d you run?”

He met Quackity’s eyes, caught off guard. “Huh?”

“From Logsted. Logstedshire? Why’d you leave?”

Tommy was silent for a moment, focusing in on Quackity as if there was something to him that he hadn’t registered before. It didn’t make Quackity self-conscious, as he shifted beneath the kid’s gaze, adjusting his stance and straightening his beanie, hyper aware of the attention. In true Tommy fashion, he simply decided to ignore the question, asking his own, “Why are you working with Dream?”

Quackity sighed, slightly exasperated, “Tommy, I asked you a question—”

“And I need to know before I answer. Why are you working with Dream?”

He could have pushed harder, Quackity figured. He could have demanded his question be answered first before he answered the one posed to him. But there was something in Tommy’s voice, bordering on worry, that made Quackity yield, “I got hurt. He’s helping me.”

“And that’s… that’s it?” Tommy seemed hopeful. “He hasn’t, I dunno, taken your armor or anything?”

“Why would he take my—? Tommy, what are you talking about?”

“Just answer the question, Big Q!”

“ _Well, nice to see ya,_ ” Dream’s voice interrupted their conversation and the two of them went silent, looking toward the house once more. Tommy was fumbling with his bag, pulling out a bottle and uncorking it; Quackity could make out shapes on the first floor, heading toward the front door.

“No, he isn’t taking my armor. He’s just… an ally right now.” he answered, looking back to Tommy at the exact moment that he dropped the glass bottle. They both rushed to catch it but it slipped out of their grasp, cracking on the floor between them and unleashing a cloud that smelled faintly of the Nether and… carrots? Quackity looked up to meet his eyes but once again couldn’t see him, only knowing Tommy was still standing in front of him by him speaking,

“A friend?” There was a weight to the word that Quackity knew he would never fully understand.

“ _See you later,_ ” Techno’s voice, accompanied by the sound of the front door opening. His words seemed to spur Tommy into action once more, lowering his voice to a frantic whisper,

“Big Q, I know you and Techno aren’t on good terms—” Quackity interrupted with a snort, but Tommy pressed on, “But if you need a place to go, to get away from Dream, to— to hide, or some shit, my house is—”

He cut himself off suddenly, and Quackity looked down at the sound of snow crunching beneath invisible steps, Tommy running off as Dream and Punz made their way down the stairs. Quackity could have reached out and stopped him, _should_ have reached out and stopped him ; the whole point of the trip was to find Tommy for Dream, see if he was a willing traitor, and bring him home. He had found Tommy, he had seen that he was a willing traitor, the next step was to bring him home.  


“Quackity?”

But he was reminded of the desperation in Tommy’s voice, _he can’t know I’m here_ — “Took you guys long enough, I was freezing out here.”

His name was repeated again and Quackity turned to them, an indecent joke on the tip of his tongue; he paused when he realized neither Punz nor Dream were looking in his direction, instead focused out on the world around them, looking into the distance. Quackity glanced back to the footsteps, caused by an invisible figure, and groaned. Fuck, he had been hit with the potion too, hadn’t he? He cleared his throat, acting sheepish, and was thankful that they couldn’t see his flinch as he was suddenly beneath the gaze of two very tense, very competent fighters.

“I drank the wrong potion,” he tried to explain, hoping his fear translated more to embarrassment. Punz snorted, reaching into his bag and handing over a chilled bottle of milk; they began to head back toward the boats as Quackity became visible once more, throwing one last glance over his shoulder. Technoblade was still standing at the window, watching them leave. He turned away once more, picking up a brisker pace. “So, any idea where he’s gone?”

Dream tilted his head side to side, “I mean, Techno  _ said _ he didn’t see him.” 

“But…?”

“Well, you saw it more than we did.”

There was a sinking feeling in his stomach, a moment of worry as he considered how much he should keep to himself. This was something they were already aware of, a test of what he would give up, more than anything. “The cobblestone tower.”

“Among other things. A to-do list that sounded suspiciously like Tommy. A second unmade bed, even though Phil’s been in New L’Manberg for weeks.” 

“What are you going to do about it?”

Dream went quiet, untying a boat from its makeshift dock and pushing it slowly out to sea. There was an idea brewing in his mind, Quackity could see it in the visible shift in how the masked man held himself. His body held a newfound giddiness that bordered mania, unrestrained and almost reckless, “Tubbo actually mentioned something to me a few days ago. A festival they were planning. Something about ‘unity’ and ‘continued cooperation’.”

“What does that have to do with—?”

“It’s for the whole server, not just L’Manberg,” he continued, unbothered by Quackity’s interruption, “I could put in a good word about it, get Technoblade there. It’s a win-win for both of us, if you think about it. I would get to ask him a few questions.”

“And what, I get to beat him at ring toss?”

“Well, he killed you at the last festival, right?” Dream turned to him, the smile drawn on his mask almost looking... larger than before. “Why don’t you get him back at this one?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> quackity is head of the tubbo and tommy protection squad no i will NOT elaborate


	4. it seems i have lost my way

The weeks blurred together once it was decided that they were to kill Technoblade at the Festival, time spent in a flurry of various activities. The days not spent brewing potions or collecting resources were instead consumed with lessons, Quackity standing ready in a clearing across from an apathetic opponent whose sword was held with an ease that suggested expertise, Quackity tracking rabbits in the forest until his prey grew more dangerous, masked and ready to fight back. He would wake in the morning refreshed and come back exhausted, skin burned in his fight for blaze powder, blisters agitated after hours of mining for glowstone. Every sunset he found himself in the forest behind their home, moving through the trees with the ease of a hunter in his home territory and slaughtering the spiders necessary for the next set of potions they had to prepare.

Some days the three of them woke early, greeting the sunrise with weapons in hands as it cast its rays upon their clearing. Quackity stood armorless opposite of Punz, his axe against his opponent’s sword, both with shields at the ready; a distance away, positioned up in a tree, Dream watched the fight occurring below him.

“Don’t stop moving when you block.” He called out, eyes focused as Quackity grounded himself rather than dodging, gritting his teeth when Punz briefly disabled his shield; Quackity stumbled and for a moment it seemed he would once again raise his arm to use his shield, but the movement halted halfway through, the man choosing instead to duck beneath Punz’s incoming swing.

It had been hours already, and his body complained with every split-second decision, begging for either a moment’s rest or death— it would be healed up when he respawned, ready to fight more. But he continued on, swings frenzied and wide, not meant to hit but rather to direct his opponent into an inferior position; Punz was slightly lower than him now, Quackity’s feet planted firmly on a slight hill.

“Right, keep the higher ground.” He hadn’t noticed Dream getting down from his perch, but did not take his eyes away from his opponent for more than a brief moment to clock where the masked man now stood, only a few blocks away from them with sword in hand. Punz was trying to maneuver him closer to Dream, the same strategy that Quackity had used to corner Punz, and Quackity continued to glance between the two. He noted the slight adjustments Dream made: a shifting of his stance, now side-on rather than facing him directly, maximizing his reach and—

He ducked down, the sword thrust where his neck was only moments before, and he reached up with his shield to knock it away, axe parrying an attack from Punz.

“You can be quick when you want to be,” Memories of an easier time came back to him without warning at Dream’s words. George, giddy as they traversed the mismatched paths of the Nether, shouting with no concern, _“He’s a cop!”._ Dream, one step behind, shouting out in complaint, _“How are you so fast?”,_ words drowned out with another uproar of their laughter. He no longer saw the same man that once chased after them, the carefree nature now replaced with a mask of passive detachment.

Quackity hissed and narrowly dodged a swing, blood welling at a superficial wound and bringing his attention back to the fight. Dream continued speaking as he stepped back, allowing Quackity to refocus on Punz, “You have to consider that you might have to fight off Tommy, too.”

“I don’t think he even knows what a surprise attack is,” Quackity remarked, amused; Punz returned on a harsh offensive as Quackity went on, “I’ll be on my own, then?”

Dream scoffed, “As if you’d let anyone else take the kill from you. If anyone else gets involved, hold them off until one of us gets there. If Tommy gets in your way, I’ll take care of it.”

“Sounds ominous.” An attack blocked.

“I’m not gonna kill the kid, Quackity,” he could imagine the eyeroll beneath the mask, “I told you before, I don’t want anyone to die.”

“So why are we training to kill Techno, then?” 

“He’s gotten cocky. Keeps getting away with things he shouldn’t get away with.” Quackity gritted his teeth as Punz got in a hit, having to take a step back to keep himself standing. “He can’t keep destroying the server and not expect consequences for his actions.”

“Sounds like you took a page right from the Butchers.” Another hit, another step back.

“We have the same goal; I wouldn’t have saved you if we didn’t. We both see what he’s been doing to the server.” Yet Dream had the capacity to step in and shut Techno down on his own, one of the few that could be considered on Techno’s level, and he did nothing about it. Quackity brought his sword down, making Punz stumble as he blocked it, “And anyways, he has the two more. It’s not like we’re actually killing him.”

The concept of three lives had been difficult to wrap his head around, when Quackity first heard about it. Three chances to die and, after the third, an uncertain afterlife. Wilbur had returned as a ghost, memories faded and a cheeriness replacing the insanity and tension that had taken over in his last living weeks. But Schlatt hadn’t come back, no one seeing the horned bastard anywhere, no offers of booze to parallel how ‘Ghostbur’ handed out his blue.

Another swing, and Punz was brought to a knee, Quackity’s axe tilting his chin up as he tried to catch his breath. He pulled his weapon away, hand outstretched to help Punz get to his feet.

Quackity still wasn’t quite sure how he felt about it, the three death system. He didn’t know if he was grateful to not have to worry about something so permanent, or if he should be jealous of an afterlife he didn’t know how to reach. No longer in combat, he focused on Dream, both of them having paused briefly to look toward Punz before the conversation continued on,

"You could die, though, Quackity.” There was a silent command given, Quackity could see that much as the mercenary abandoned his sword and headed back toward the house. Quackity let his eyes follow Punz’s retreating back before turning to Dream once more, shrugging, unsure how to respond,

“At least I already have a coffin ready.”

He let out a bark of laughter, “Yeah, yeah, I guess that’s true.”

A silence fell over them, settling on a neutrality that balanced Quackity’s hidden unease and Dream’s indifference. After a moment Dream continued, tone light,

“There is something I’m curious about, though.”

“Yeah?”

“You died in your little coup attempt. And then before that, at the Festival. And unless you managed to magically convince Techno to not kill you—” Pick through the teeth, _a pickaxe through his teeth—_ “ and somehow lived a week without water or oxygen in a coffin, I‘m surprised you’re still alive.”

“Guess it just didn’t st—”

He woke up in his bed before he even registered the sword slitting his throat.

“What the fuck, Dream!” He knew the man could hear his shout as he slammed open his bedroom door, passing by Punz with a timer and heading out to the clearing. Quackity walked past Punz’s abandoned sword, pulling out his axe from the pile of items that lay where his body once stood. For a moment he paused, Dream’s words echoing in his head— _“Don’t stop moving when you block,”_ — and he picked up his shield as well, holding it in his offhand and moving in for the attack. He was surprised when he fully registered what he was doing, his axe against Dream’s sword, each fighting to maintain a grip on their weapons.

Quackity was in no way a better fighter than Dream; the latter had years of formal experience on him. When Quackity had still been learning how to fly Dream had a sword in his hand and an expert adjusting his stance. When Quackity had met Tommy, Dream had mastered yet another fighting style, incorporating a fishing rod, of all things, into his routine. He had trained professionally for far longer than Quackity had even wielded a weapon.

Yet no amount of training prepared him for the shield that came swinging at his face, an unexpected disregard of duel etiquette.

They both seemed surprised by the way the fight was going, Dream needing to take a few steps to regain his balance. Quackity trained his axe on the white mask, Dream’s sword pointed back at him in return. “What the _fuck_ was that about?”

“Just seeing what we’re working with. Your respawn was almost instant.” They both lowered their weapons slowly, neither wanting to be the first to disengage.

“You can’t just _kill_ me like that, I—” He brought his shield up as Dream attacked once more, overpowering him in both training and conversation,

“You lived.” The statement settled Quackity down, his anger momentarily cowered by the irritation in Dream’s voice. The momentum of his next attack, once again parried, sent Quackity stumbling past him; he gritted his teeth as the bottom edge of Dream’s shield was brought down on his back, sending him flat to the ground. “Why’d you keep this from me?”

“Cause it still fucking hurts to die.” He was simply stating a fact, no drag in his voice to indicate any complaint. Quackity attempted to get to his elbows and knees, but the tip of Dream’s sword rested in the space between his wings, a warning that left him on the ground.

“Still,” Dream shrugged, “it’s kind of a big thing to keep from an ally, Quackity. Makes me wonder what else you could be keeping.”

A chill ran up his spine as the sword pricked his skin, drawing blood.

“We have the same goal.” Quackity echoed a statement said only minutes ago, his impression impeccable before dissolving into a high-pitched chuckle; he hoped the humor hid any nervousness. It seemed to do the trick, as Dream joined in with his own titter, and Quackity continued on, “Why would I keep anything from you?”

Tone light, Dream pointed out, “Didn’t stop you with the undying thing.”

“Why would I keep anything that didn’t hurt me from you?” He clarified, watching Dream out of the corner of his eye and noticing the way his arm relaxed, the sword no longer held in a way that suggested he was about to run it through Quackity.

“I guess. And I mean, if you did keep something else from me,” The mood darkened, and the chill returned tenfold, “I could just cut your wings off.”

He was intimately aware of the blade still on his back.

Another nervous chuckle, “You’re— you’re kidding, right?”

“Do I look like I’m kidding?” Dream countered, “Like I said about Technoblade, like I’ve been saying with Tommy. There has to be consequences. If you lie, or keep something from me, or— or even go to L’Manberg without telling me? If you betray me, I’ll cut your wings off. Easy. But I mean, we don’t have to worry about that, right?”

And he swallowed a growing lump in his throat, “Right.”

“Can you respawn without returning to bed?” Whatever worry took over Quackity had no effect on Dream, the man continuing on as if he hadn’t just threatened to maim his ally; it was jarring, to return to the conversation so abruptly, and he had to take an extra minute to process what was asked of him as the sword moved to rest on Dream’s shoulder, no longer a threat.

There was one place, a clearing that he had vague recollections of stumbling around in like a fawn on shaking legs just learning to walk. He had been led away by Tommy and Wilbur and hadn’t thought much of it until he returned to the same place that very night, the zombies having swarmed him, tearing apart his flesh and feasting until they had their fill. The location marked itself in his mind, the place he would return to if not to his bed, just past the community house and the obsidian portal. 

“There’s another spot. It’s...” he scoffed, “It’s actually pretty close to L’Manberg.”

“And nothing, I dunno, ties you to that area?” Dream pressed, “No bed, or— or lodestone, or anything?”

Had it not been for the blood sticking to the back of his shirt, Quackity thought he might have hallucinated the whole fight. “I can’t change the area, if that’s what you’re asking.”

He knew that the man behind the mask was considering his words, silent as Quackity got up into a seated position and collected himself. The mask was unnerving to glance to as he leaned back on his arms, taking whatever moment of rest he could and allowing Dream time to plan their next steps.

“Get up.” Quackity did so without hesitation, looking cautiously as Dream called out, “Punz!”

A moment later, he was awake in his bed once again, gasping for breath. His hand ghosted above his neck, the echo of pressure from the unseen arrow piercing his skin still fading away.

He startled up in his bed once again, gasping for breath; his hand ghosted above his neck, feeling the fading echo of an unseen arrow piercing his skin. Quackity rose slowly, taking time to collect himself before heading out the door once again. The two had moved closer to the base, silently watching as he collected his belongings off the ground. He could feel Dream’s gaze on him behind the mask, curious; Punz looked on, disinterested.

As he picked up his axe Dream adjusted his stance, his own weapon at the ready. So they were fighting? “What did I do this time?” 

“Just testing something.” The first move was slow, a clear swipe from the right; Quackity grabbed his shield from the ground and lifted to deflect, falling in tune with the practice as Dream questioned, “How come you keep your clothes but not your armor?”

“I don’t know, man—”

“Have you tried?” Blows came faster now, more intent behind both of their attacks as they fell into the fight proper. “What’s to stop the things on your body from being considered whatever your clothes are considered?”

“No idea.” It was an interesting idea, and Quackity was a bit surprised that he hadn’t considered it before in his hundreds of deaths; things would certainly be easier if he didn’t need to return to his death point and collect his things.

“Stop fighting back.” 

He was caught off-guard by the request, his axe getting caught by Dream’s sword and quickly disarmed, a shield to his chest sending him stumbling backward. Quackity landed on his back painfully, watching as Dream stood above, sword gripped with both hands and positioned directly above his heart.

“Try to keep your things.”

He startled awake, a hand grasping at the sharp pain that was quickly fading from his chest; Quackity got out of bed quicker this time, his breathing still uneven as he stumbled out of the base and toward Dream. Punz was nowhere to be found. 

He picked up his sword and shield, hopeful for a moment when he realized he couldn’t find one of his potion bottles. The hope quickly vanished when he caught sight of glass shards where it had shattered, and his shoulders slumped, disappointed.

“No one gets anything the first try. Let’s go again.”

Quackity picked up the rest of his items, slotting away the final bottle before he’s once again waking up in bed, hands frantically feeling for the back of his neck.

He headed outside.

He woke up in his bed.

“You’re never gonna beat Technoblade like this. Focus.”

Outside.

In bed.

“Come on, Quackity.”

Again.

“You were close.”

Again.

"Did you pick up that bottle before?"

Again.

Again.

Again.

He kept his eyes shut the next time he respawned, taking a moment to lie in bed and collect himself. Each try was getting harder than the last, his body crying out for rest. It took only a few moments before his door swung open, Dream looking at him expectantly, “Get up.”

“Can I have a minute?” Despite his request, he began trying to move.

“I don’t see why this is so hard for you.”

“You wanna give it a fucking try?” There was a bite to his words, quieting Dream down enough to give Quackity a few moments to bring himself into a half-lying position. With great difficulty he rose off the bed, heading toward the hall only to be stopped by a sword crossing the open doorway, tip resting against the frame opposite where Dream stood. He considered Quackity for a moment, head cocked to the side and eyes presumably trained on him from behind the mask, making him shift on his feet. The sword was pulled away, knocking against a— a bottle in his pocket, one he hadn’t picked up yet.

“We’ll try again tomorrow.”

He left without another word.

Quackity stood in the room alone for a minute, staring at the spot where Dream once stood. He was torn between sighing or shouting out every curse word he knew; deciding on the former, he collected himself, heading out to the clearing one last time to retrieve the items that hadn’t respawned with him. Everything fucking hurt and it wasn’t even noon. He looked up toward the forest, wondering if it would be easier to collect spider eyes in the darker parts of the forest now rather than letting the pain sink in throughout the day until sunset.

And that was when he caught sight of it. Movement in the treeline, black and white clashing against the greens and browns of the forest it attempted to hide in. He stood, picking up his items and focusing his eyes on the ground as he headed closer, appearing as if he was attempting to find something on the ground. But his target was smart, and Quackity broke out into a sprint when they fled, following after with axe in hand.

It was easy to catch up, his quarry unfamiliar with the woods that had become Quackity’s hunting grounds. He ran directly toward the other person, adrenaline helping him put his full force into tackling them and rolling to lessen the damage he took as they both tumbled to the ground. His axe lay abandoned a ways away from the duo, a book tossed aside with it, and Quackity grinned down at his captured opponent. His hand tightened around the half-enderman’s neck, an improvised attempt at immobilizing him as Quackity spoke,

“What’re you doing here, _Rambo?"_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> quackity has unlocked: /gamerule keepinventory true  
> ranboo has unlocked: fear.jpg


	5. facedown in the carpet (i feel safe)

If Quackity had ten seconds to count the amount of fights he’s ever won, he would take one second to count a single fight and be pissed off for the remaining nine.

He always found himself on the wrong side of a blade, always saw his blood spilled before his opponent’s, always lost his weapon first and always found his breath getting caught in his throat as he shot up in a bed, the echoes of injuries lingering for hours after. If held hostage with a crossbow aimed at his head, with someone demanding him to name a time he won a fight on his own, he would not be able to provide an answer.

But now he stood with his retrieved axe held up against his target’s neck, his heavy breathing contrasting the way Ranboo held his own. He would be lying if he didn’t say it was exhilarating, a power thrumming in his veins that he had not felt before as Ranboo stood trapped, refusing to make eye contact with him. A sound caught Quackity off guard, an unnatural static that put him on edge as he looked around for the enderman who caused it; when nothing caught his eye he turned back to the boy beneath his axe, eyebrows raised in curiosity and amusement as the sound was made once more, uncontrollable. Neither of them mentioned the tears coming from one of Ranboo’s eyes, unintentional and extremely unwelcome.

“No fucking way.”

The tension between the two of them dissipated and Quackity backed down with a chuckle, digging his axe into the ground. He froze for a moment and looked over to Ranboo, whose gaze lingered on the weapon; the two of them briefly made eye contact before the half-enderman turned away first, taking a deep breath. Quackity collected up the book that had fallen in their chase, studying the cover. He turned a deaf ear to the quiet request for the book to be returned, looking up without opening it and repeating his original question,

“Why are you here?” 

There was the soft buzz of a communicator receiving a message, ignored by the two as Ranboo explained, “We— Tubbo and Fundy, they’ve been looking for you. Big Q, everyone thought that Technoblade killed you—”

“He did.” Ranboo tensed at the sudden chill in Quackity’s tone, glancing over and seeing his hardened expression, “How did you find me?” 

“I don’t— I don’t remember.”

“Oh, what a fucking coincidence.” Quackity’s hand was already reaching out to where he had placed the axe and Ranboo rushed to continue, blurting out,

“Probably from Phil!” The aggression that had been growing suddenly stilled, not pacified with the admission, but not getting worse. He added, hesitantly, “That’s— he told me you were alive. I don’t know how he knew.”

It didn’t seem to be the right thing to say, Quackity spitting out his next words, “Philza Minecraft, huh? The traitor to L’Manberg, that Phil?” 

Ranboo winced. Quackity cursed, muttering to himself about the cold, pigs, and… vans? His attention returned to Ranboo, “Fine, maybe it got out that I was alive. Someone told someone, who told Phil, who told _you._ But _no one_ knew where I was. So I’m gonna ask you one more time, _Ranboo_ : how did you find me?”

Another buzz from the communicator, and Ranboo could see Quackity’s eye twitch, throwing a glance over to the abandoned thing. He looked… the only word Ranboo could come up with was tired; Quackity was well past the state in which he could pretend it was from a single long night, personality and faked enthusiasm unable to hide the physical signs of his exhaustion. But any further considerations were interrupted by Quackity clearing his throat, impatient. Ranboo startled, remembering what was asked of him and responding,

“I was looking for Dream.”

“Oh, yeah?” Quackity didn’t believe him.

“Yeah, it was about… about a Festival.”

Quackity visibly took the excuse into consideration, quiet, and Ranboo watched a smile grow on his face; he let himself relax slightly as well, glancing to the book that Quackity still held but otherwise not on edge. “You should have just led with that. We already know about it. Consider this conversation our RSVP.”

“‘Our’?” Ranboo questioned, uncertain if he was stepping over a line he wasn’t meant to cross. Quackity rolled his eyes,

“Don’t act dumb, Rambo. I know you saw us.”

“Sou’re… you’re allies, then.” He would have to let Tubbo know as soon as possible if that were the case. They hadn’t considered Dream having any ally other than Punz, especially not _Quackity,_ who had— according to Fundy and Tubbo— apparently been all for the hitlist; take out Technoblade, take out Dream, have the country safe again. But now he and Dream were _training_ together?

“I prefer to call it _mutual exploitation.”_ Quackity mused, either oblivious or unbothered by Ranboo’s renewed unease. He let the words sink in, his next comment carefully chosen,

“That makes it sound like you’re using him.”

He laughed, appreciating the observation. “Let me explain something to you, Ranboo: there are three formidable forces on this server. One has slaughtered our nation without consequence, and another is on my side teaching me how to take the first one down.”

“What about the third?”

“He wears a reindeer onesie.” The answer came without hesitation. “The point I’m trying to make here, Ranboo, is that we had been going about this all the wrong way. Against people like _them,_ it doesn’t matter how stacked we are, or how many people we have, or if we threaten something they’re attached to. There are two extremely powerful people on this server, and you need to have one to get to the other.”

Ranboo took his words into consideration, staying silent for a moment. It was… logical, forming a sinking feeling in him as he considered his growing, if hesitant, friendship with those in the Arctic. But he was caught on something, the peculiarity of the statement not leaving him alone. “You called it mutual.”

He didn’t refute.

“That… would mean he’s using you, too.”

A shrug, “He probably is, yeah.”

“And you’re just… okay with that?”

“No, I cry myself to sleep every night.” Quackity chuckled, rolling his eyes, “That’s what an alliance _is,_ Ranboo. I use him, he uses me, we both leave with what we want and don’t have to deal with each other again.”

“You’re not even _slightly_ curious about what he gets out of this?”

“He gets Techno’s head on a pike.” Ranboo flinched at the bluntness. They were quiet for a moment and Quackity looked around, ears picking up on the sound of footsteps but unable to identify where or who they were coming from. “Listen, Ranboo. You basically admitted it yourself, you’re getting all buddy-buddy with the murderers up in the Arctic, aren’t you?”

He watched as Quackity headed over to his abandoned axe, his breath catching in his throat. The man looked to him, expectant, and Ranboo gave a hesitant nod; he knew it wasn’t a genuine question, and didn’t want to find out what lying got him. Quackity continued speaking, yanking the axe from the ground and running a sleeve across the cheek of the weapon, cleaning it of any remaining dirt, “You can resurrect Wilbur and Schlatt’s insane asses and have a sleepover with them, I frankly don’t give a shit. But just know that if you get in the way of justice, Ranboo, I will kill you."

“Get in the way of justice? Or get in the way of your revenge?”

Judging by the look in his eyes, they were one in the same. Quackity huffed, amused, but the sound rang hollow. He opened his mouth to respond, but was cut off by the sound of another voice nearby, calling out loudly,

“Ranboo?”

The two looked to each other, a stalemate between them. Quackity brought his axe up to rest on his shoulder, gesturing for Ranboo to speak, and he responded hesitantly,

“Over here!”

He focused on where the voice had come from, and his eyes widened when he saw Tubbo and Fundy coming out from the trees; Tubbo’s expression faltered, his smile wavering as he looked at the scene they had walked in on.

“Ranboo....” He dragged the name out in complaint, “You said you found Big Q."

“Yeah, he’s right h—” He turned, but where a winged man once stood with a fire behind his eyes there was now an apathetic blond, a look of boredom on his face; a diamond axe rested across his shoulders, one hand loosely gripping each side of the handle. Ranboo stared, a horrified _“No”_ escaping his lips as Tubbo continued on,

“Sorry, Punz,” he apologized, moving to stand beside Ranboo; Fundy took up the other side, questioning

“What are you doing out here, man?” 

Punz blinked once, slow and unbothered, before nodding to the direction of the house and giving a shrug, “Second base.”

They nodded along, completely understanding where he was coming from. Tubbo spoke once more, casual, “Listen, we’re looking for Big Q. He hasn’t been around here, has he?”

“Haven’t seen him.”

“Would your answer be different if we gave you a diamond block?” Fundy offered, already reaching back into his bag.

“...you know me too well, Fundy,” he cracked a smile, “but you all look like you could use it more than me. I haven’t seen him, and don’t know anyone else who has, either. Kinda figured he was dead after the whole failed execution thing.”

“We’ve heard that a lot.” Tubbo grimaced, his shoulders sinking inward in defeat. Ranboo studied Punz and, if he trusted what he thought he saw, he might have said he saw something similar to guilt flash on the man’s face. The president took a deep breath, straightening back up and offering a smile, “Well, if you hear anything, or see him or his… ghost… would you let us know?”

“Course.”

“See ya around then, Punz.” They turned toward the direction they had come from, giving their last waves and goodbyes before heading off. Ranboo remained a few steps behind, throwing a backward glance and taking in Punz’s appearance one last time before heading off with his companions. Punz picked up the whispers of a continued conversation, a lighthearted accusation and a confused defense.

He stayed silent until he could no longer hear their voices nor footsteps, letting his axe fall to the ground with a grateful exhale. Tension left his body as his hair stained itself darker and his skin returned to its original tone, neither of the changes seeming to have an obvious, explainable source. Quackity took a moment to collect himself, shaking out the last physical and mental remnants of copying Punz on his way back to their base. He was caught by surprise at a book falling to the ground as he walked, falling out of the pocket that no longer existed without the hoodie. Right, Ranboo's book. He would have to return it somehow.

He returned quietly, the door creaking open to announce his otherwise silent arrival. He followed the signs of life, a spiced smell and the sound of something boiling, poking his head into the kitchen and catching sight of Dream and Punz.

“Quackity,” the masked man greeted, looking up from where he was dicing potatoes, “didn’t expect you back so soon.”

“Wow, not even a hello? A welcome home kiss?” He teased, setting the book on the counter and peering into a pot to see what was cooking inside. Punz studied him as he got into the mercenary’s personal space, an eyebrow raised.

“You’re empty handed.”

The cheeriness that had been brought with the brief moment of unprofessionalism vanished, and Quackity cleared his throat, reluctantly admitting, “We might have a problem.”

Dream’s knife stilled. He remained quiet, expecting Quackity to elaborate without needing to be asked; his expectations were proven correct as Quackity continued, each word deliberate,

“Someone was in the forest nearby, saw the place from a distance. I turned them away, but they know someone lives here.”

His vagueness didn’t go unnoticed, and the mask tilted up as he focused his attention to Quackity; unseen eyes narrowed as Dream reminded him, his tone kept light, “We just had a conversation about keeping secrets, Q.”

“...it was Ranboo. He said he was looking for you, actually. Wanted to extend the invitation for the Festival.”

And Dream... relaxed. “Oh. That’s fine, then.”

He blinked. “What?”

“Ranboo’s got memory problems, doesn’t he? He won’t remember the location.” he resumed his cooking, “But he knows you’re alive?”

“Well, actually, uh. He thinks Punz lives here.” Quackity chuckled, nervous. Punz smacked his hand away when it strayed too close to bread, other hand wielding a knife in silent threat if he attempted to swipe anything else before dinner was ready.

“... and how’d you manage that?”

“... copied his skin.” 

Dream was caught off guard with the response and let out a curse when he cut himself in his surprise, shaking his hand to ineffectively fight off any pain and studying it to see if he drew blood. He got back to work on adding the last ingredients to the pot, speaking as Punz took over with the remainder of the work, “What do you mean ‘copied his _skin’?”_

Quackity thought for a moment before letting a familiar skin replace his own, black skin and white eyes put on often enough for laughs. Dream took in the change of appearance, an exact copy of Bad, and Quackity let it fall after a few moments as they made their way to the table to eat.

“That’s….” He trailed off, not able to find the right word to describe his reaction to the revelation, “useful.”

Dinner began quietly, the three of them seated with their respective bread and stews, enjoying the chance to sit and decompress after a day of training, and individual assignments. After a few minutes Punz set his utensils down with an unexpected force, getting both of their attention; he spoke, surprisingly serious, 

“Let me see your impression of me.”

Quackity choked on his stew, wiping at his mouth, “What?”

“I wanna see you do me.”

It was easy to return to Punz’s look, as simple as putting on a coat that had been removed only a moment ago. Dream studied him, fascinated with the ease in which he transformed; Punz was not as impressed, giving the final copy a once-over. “I don’t look like that.”

Quackity scoffed, offended, “Are you doubting me? This is exactly what you look like!”

“No way.”

“It’s an _exact_ copy—”

“It does look pretty similar.” Dream admitted, amused at the look of betrayal he received for his acknowledgement. Punz blinked, silent for a moment before giving his second demand,

“Do Dream.”

Quackity grinned, clearing his throat and speaking over the man in question’s opposition when he had a handle on his impression, his voice an exact replication of the one asked for, “My name is Dream, and today, I am going to speedrun manipulating childr—”

“Can you do anyone?” Dream interrupted loudly, cutting him off and glaring at the two as they dissolved into laughter. Quackity took a moment to catch his breath, nodding in response to the question, and Dream waited for them to all calm down before he spoke once more. His grin was audible as he requested, “Do Technoblade.”

He paused, visibly considering what he would have to change. After a moment he seemed content, beginning the quick process of his transformation; every detail was accounted for, from the shading of his skin, different from most other piglins, to his slightly lazy left eye and torn ear. Quackity cleared his throat, moving down an octave and a half before speaking, monotonous, “Do all these wither skulls make my ass look fat?”

Three separate laughs rang out, ranging from a joyous and unrestrained to a soft chuckle, the third a wheeze that sent the other two into harder fits; Quackity wiped tears from his eyes, trying to catch his breath as he let himself shift back into his original form, beanie and all.

As the moon rose to greet them that night, the three found themselves situated on the couch, bowls abandoned at the table and the house quiet except for the crackle of the fire, gentle and contained. They sat in companionable quiet, Dream at Punz’s side with his arm tossed over the back of the couch, most definitely going to lose feeling in it by the morning; Punz’s legs were claimed by half of Quackity’s body as the latter had thrown himself across the two, unbothered by scowls and verbal complaints the moment he realized neither would throw him off. 

Quackity broke their comfortable silence with a barely-concealed laugh and Dream looked down, expecting to not like whatever the other found humorous. Quackity grinned up at him, gesturing to the general domesticity of the entire scene. “Do we have to tell George about this?”

And Dream chuckled, rolling his eyes, “Shut up.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> c!quackity and c!dream being arguably awful people versus them being funny, fight


	6. with the same mouth we bless and curse

Dream was pissed.

This wasn’t unusual, really.

_(“Is he... dead?” Quackity asked, looking up to where Dream sat in a tree, his attention focused on his thoughts rather than the world around him._

_Punz snorted, shaking his head, “No, he’s just brooding again.”)_

It being a regular occurrence did nothing to calm the unease that had fallen over the two as they trained, both of them occasionally throwing a glance over to where Dream was focused in on his communicator, mood soured and brows undoubtedly furrowed. Punz had decided an hour ago to stop any legitimate training, Quackity following suit and going through the motions to keep up an appearance in an attempt to make their snooping and gossip less obvious.

They paused as Dream stood suddenly, believing their act to be seen through, but he simply headed toward the base; Quackity and Punz made eye contact, a silent conversation passing in less than a second and an agreement being made as the former headed after him.

“What’s up, man?” He closed the door behind him, setting his axe in the corner and following Dream upstairs. They both paused as they reached the room Quackity had assumed to be Dream’s, looking at each other, before he ultimately opened the door and headed in; Quackity leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed. He took in the room around them— it was much more bare than he expected, no memorabilia or personal items strewn about— before returning his attention to Dream, clearing his throat and questioning him once again, “Something on your mind?”

And Dream spat out, agitated, “Tommy’s been seen in New L’Manberg.”

That wasn’t what he expected. “Really?”

“There’s a hostage situation, apparently,” he continued, shuffling through a few chests in search of something, “almost killed Connor.”

That… didn’t seem impossible, considering that it was Tommy, but it didn’t quite make sense. “Why would he take Connor hostage? He doesn’t even live in L’Manberg.”

“First person they saw, probably.” Dream shrugged, pulling out a few bottles and holding them up to a light to check their contents; he uncorked one, satisfied when gray smoke escaped and putting the stopper back on before tucking it into his coat.

“They?” He froze, looking over to Quackity at the sudden chill to his tone. Dream glanced down, looking at white knuckles and picturing the nails that dug into their own hands, before focusing back up to make eye contact with him; Quackity forcibly relaxed when he realized he was being studied, taking a deep breath and staying quiet as Dream spoke once more.

“Techno’s with him,” he confirmed, “I’ll deal with it. I was supposed to meet up with someone, if they come by just tell t—”

“Why don’t I go instead?” Quackity asked, playing up his casualness to counter the previously ill-contained anger, “You said it yourself, you have plans. Let me deal with Tommy.”

He quirked a brow, amused at the offer, “And what’ll you do?”

“Well, he’s breaking exile,” a solid opener, basing his argument for his involvement in law and logic rather than emotional investment, Dream would give him that much. “He’s been breaking exile this whole time. I bet I could convince him to go back to Logstedshire.”

“I mean he kind of, uh. Blew it up.” Dream chuckled, rubbing the back of his neck. Quackity stayed silent, and he tacked on, “Probably for the best if he’s just brought back here.”

There wasn’t an immediate response, silence where Dream expected a quip or a counterargument. He looked over, taking in the sight of Quackity deep in thought, considering the plan put forward. The other spoke with carefully chosen words, tone light, “Dream, that… doesn’t really sound like much of an exile to me.”

Dream sighed, exasperated, and looked back to the chests as he continued shuffling through them, “Why do you want him to go back to exile so badly? Weren’t you against it in the first place?”

“Well, if this isn’t about consequences anymore, and we’re just doing this to get him away from Technoblade,” He stilled, knowing where the question was headed, “why don’t we let him go back to L’Manberg?”

Dream’s argument was weakened the moment he hesitated to answer. He kept his attention to the chests, pulling out a small bag that clinked with gold pieces and emeralds, and asked his own question in return, “Quackity, who in L’Manberg can keep Tommy safe?”

 _From Technoblade_ remained unspoken, an unnecessary clarification. Sure, they were also trying to take Tommy away from him because the man didn’t need another ally in his pursuit of destruction— Quackity had no doubt in his mind that Philza had escaped house arrest and returned to his friend’s side— but he also could not, in good conscience, allow Tommy to spend much longer with Technoblade. He had destroyed the country that the kid had made with his brother, the country that Quackity tried so hard to keep afloat under Schlatt, under Tubbo. And he didn’t need Technoblade using Tommy to get his weapons back, because Quackity knew that the minute he wrapped a finger around the last reclaimed trigger, he would fire, and they would once again be grieving a crater that had once been their home.

 _But why would Techno need Tommy’s help?_ a small part of his mind questioned, all too aware of Techno’s power. What did he get out of this, wasting supplies, taking his time when he could just come in with more skulls and explosives, demanding his things returned to him?

Quackity was reminded of the execution, standing in the Arctic with his axe at the ready as Techno went on about his retirement _(so why was he still armed to the teeth?)_ and his changed ways _(so why did he almost murder Fundy?)_ , twisting a story of betrayal and manipulation. _He wasn’t the bad guy,_ he explained, standing in their way as they used the government to try and create some semblance of order, agreeing upon a structure for peace and a necessity for justice. Tubbo was deemed a tyrant before he even said his first words as President.

But he could picture it now: here came Tommy, no doubt shivering as he looked for solace from the cold after destroying the place that was meant to be his home. Technoblade likely acted righteous, taking him in, providing him with food and shelter as he whispered about faux injustices and twisted recounts of events to make him appear better than he was, a victim as much as Tommy, turning the kid to his side with promises of peace, and of revenge. No doubt he painted a lovely picture of himself as a misunderstood hero, using the bodies of those that stood against him as his canvas.

Quackity’s expression hardened, his decision made. “I’ll bring him home.”

Dream looked at him in consideration, giving him the slightest hint of going along with the idea before letting it come crashing down as he turned away, “No offense, Quackity, but no. He has Technoblade on his side and you’re... not really intimidating.”

“What about this then?” Dream turned back to the man in the doorway, amused as he took in Quackity’s new appearance. Once dark hair was lighter now, hidden beneath a green hood that had not been there a moment ago; pale skin climbed up and covered his own, but stopped at his jaw, no source dictating what his face was meant to shift to beneath the mask. He stretched out his arms, confident in his recreation, “Not bad, huh?”

His voice was a near perfect impression of Dream’s own as he moved around the room, slowly adopting mannerisms as he got comfortable in the new skin; he didn’t ever quite stand still, either pacing or messing with something in his hands. It was unnerving.

“And if they attack?” Dream asked, not immediately refusing the offer. Quackity brightened, moving to stand beside him and peer into the open chest; Dream pulled an extra mask out, two dots and curved line set in a familiar smile, but did not hand it over immediately, waiting for an answer.

“I’ll say some ominous one-liner of it ‘not being time’ or some shit, lose them in the Nether.” Dream snorted, studying Quackity; he looked up at the other’s silence, cocking an eyebrow at his considering look, “Wanna take a picture or something?”

And it was… interesting, because for a second Quackity almost thought he seemed _nervous_. With an exhale Dream reached up beneath his hood, hands meeting behind his head and— he closed his eyes politely, turning away as he saw the first movements of the mask loosening.

“You can look.”

He opened one eye, hesitant, and took in the face in front of him. Dream was covered in scars, some that could be placed at least a decade old; some were small nicks, others jagged, filled with emotion and intent. Quackity’s face changed to copy the new information he received, and he grinned, joking, 

“I always thought you’d have green eyes.”

Dream handed over the mask, replacing his own and returning to his preparations as Quackity sat and fiddled with the one given to him. They fell into comfortable silence, Quackity watching the other take out what looked to be blueprints and blocks of diamonds before shutting the chest, having found what he needed; the quiet was broken by a hesitant question, “Why’d you show me your face?”

Dream didn’t speak for a moment before he responded, tone suggesting the answer should be obvious, “Techno knows my face. If you were to be unmasked, he would know what you should like underneath.”

Quackity tsked, lifting the mask up to show an exaggerated pout, “Are you saying it’s not because you actually secretly harbor a crush for me and trust me with your life?”

“Damn, you caught me. Come on, get up,” He did so without question, and Dream continued, a smirk on his face as he indulged in a joke Quackity wasn’t in on, “But really, I learned a secret of yours. Quite a few, actually. So call it... absolute reciprocity.”

He considered the mirror image that stood in front of him as Quackity adjusted his stance, holding himself as Dream did, shoulders back but body lax. Dream stilled, before reaching over and grabbing his sword, holding it out. “Just get Tommy however you can. Unharmed, Q. If you need to, say you got a disc from Skeppy.”

Quackity accepted the weapon, amused, “...did you?”

"Not yet. He doesn’t need to know that, though.” Dream responded, tone suggesting he was just as amused as the other. He led Quackity out of the house and toward the forest, the two of them moving through the trees with matched familiarity; they stopped in front of the bottom of a cliffside, and Quackity watched as he uncovered a doorway, gesturing for him to follow. They moved down the stairs quickly, slowing only for Dream to pull out his communicator and check a message that seemed to spur him to move faster.

“They’re just leaving L’Manberg. You can probably cut them off on their way home.” he slotted away the device, turning to Quackity, “Just… remember. No fighting, just get Tommy and bring him back.”

“Yes, _mom.”_

“Quackity.” Dream warned, tone demanding to take the situation seriously; he straightened up, giving a firm nod.

“Don’t worry, man. I got it.” He slipped the mask on, porcelain cool against his skin. It took a moment for him to properly secure the straps behind his head, and he was pleasantly surprised when the mask faded from his sight, enchantments activating and unobstructing his view. “I’ll bring Tommy back home.”

Quackity stepped into the portal, the world shifting around him in a purple tint. And Dream stepped out, a smile beneath his mask as he took his first step toward New L’Manberg.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> quackity: tommy is being manipulated by someone who he got close to after escaping a near-death, genuinely horrible experience, and is likely being used to further that person’s goals by pretending to be aligned with tommy’s own  
> dream:  
> quackity:  
> dream:  
> quackity: couldn’t be me


	7. grand game of deception

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> two chapters in two days pog

Tommy was not ashamed to admit he had been riding a high since Techno and he turned their backs on New L’Manberg, victory putting a pep in his step. His loud enthusiasm was matched by Technoblade’s version of the equivalent, a bemused grin on his face and a roll of his eyes whenever Tommy gave an exaggerated retelling of the events that happened not even an hour prior; the man walked only a few steps behind, checking over the condition of his newly retrieved weapons, content with what he saw. The two of them passed the community house, heading up a staircase of blackstone and netherrack. Tommy’s attention was focused behind him, cracking a joke to his companion; his laughter faltered when his joke was met with silence, and he followed Techno’s gaze, which was focused on something in front of Tommy rather than on the boy himself.

There was a figure leaning against the portal, netherite glowing and a sword held loosely in hand; hints of green could be seen beneath the armor, and the white mask identified its wearer, plain save for a drawn-on smile. Dream pushed himself off the obsidian frame, stepping forward and planting himself between the duo and their escape. Tommy stood his ground, raising his shield and throwing a glance to Techno; the man’s attention was focused on Dream, eyes narrowed as he studied their opponent.

“I’m not gonna lie, Tommy, this is a bit awkward.” Techno muttered, looking away briefly to accept a golden apple from his ally; he took a bite, letting the enchantments wash over him, and stepped forward with a firm resolve, crossbow at the ready. Tommy took a step with him, stance suggesting he was ready to fight, the slight shake to his hand suggesting he wanted to run.

“This is  _ very _ awkward, Technoblade—” he dissolved into rambles, the two of them overlapping in their anxiety before quieting down in sync, looking to Dream. Tommy spoke, hesitantly, his voice pitched up in his nervousness, “Hi, Dream.”

“Hello.” 

There was no emotion to his tone, and he did not elaborate past the greeting, content to let silence fall over the three of them. Tommy and Techno shared a glance, and the latter spoke, words directed to their opponent,

“So uh, how’s it going?” he did not wait for a response, answering his own question, “Haven’t seen you in a while. We’re doin’ pretty well, pretty well….”

Dream stayed silent, neither of them getting a hint at what he was thinking as he stood still, mask turned to Tommy but hiding what anger or amusement might be behind its surface. He ignored Techno’s words, instead addressing Tommy directly, “If I remember correctly, you’re not supposed to be here, Tommy.”

“Tommy, don’t be scared.” Techno reassured him from his left, a dramatic whisper that— judging by the movement of the mask— caught Dream’s attention as well, “He doesn’t even have a home.”

He was caught off guard by the witty remark, his responding laughter slightly panicked but still present. There was no reason to be afraid, they could joke as much as they wanted, Tommy was with the  _ Blade,  _ and they were just going against a homeless man. There was no reason to be worried—

“I got one of your discs back.” 

The worry returned tenfold.

“What?”

“I got it from Skeppy.” Dream continued, unbothered. He scoffed, glancing to Techno and shaking his head as he spoke, incredulous,

“No— no, you didn’t—”

“Yeah, I did.” He left no room for argument, and Tommy quieted down once again, shoulders hunching in. Techno could see the cogs working in his head, registering just where his discs were— one with Dream, the other, if Techno remembered correctly, with Tubbo— and reaching a sense of self-awareness in front of his eyes.

Dream cleared his throat. Tommy seemed to remember where he was, making eye contact with the masked man and speaking with a newly relit anger, “You manipulated me. You— you were terrible.”

“You messed up, Tommy.” It was a simple statement of fact. “You came here, you’re— you’re not supposed to  _ be _ here, and you’re causing problems  _ again _ . As far as I heard, you had a hostage? Is that right, Tommy?”

“...yeah, we did,” he looked toward Technoblade once more, who nodded, alright with his admission; Tommy turned back to Dream, continuing, “But it was to get back my discs, so we can put an end to all of this—”

“Tommy, Tommy, Tommy.” he chastised, shaking his head, “Forget about the discs for one second here, okay? You were exiled. You are  _ still _ exiled. And yet here you are in the SMP’s lands, by L’Manberg, causing problems?”

He stayed silent. Techno opened his mouth to defend his companion, but Dream was faster, speaking over him.

“Alright, Tommy, listen.” He stepped forward, and Tommy instinctively took a step back; the mask tilted down as Dream noted the movement, and Tommy could just imagine the amusement on the other’s face, the sick  _ fuck _ — “You’re going to come with me, or I’m going to burn your disc.”

That was... “What?”

Tommy willed himself to stay in place as Dream took another step, continuing, “Obviously you couldn’t be trusted in exile alone. So you’re going to come with me, or I’m going to burn your disc.”

Dream took a third step forward, the sound of his heel echoing against the obsidian wa— the blackstone of the portal’s stage. Tommy tensed, not sure what he expected now that the man was only a few paces from him; perhaps the sound of a shovel digging into dirt, or Dream’s voice demanding for him to put his things in the hole. He recoiled when Dream raised a hand, shutting his eyes and tightening the grip on his sword. A shadow grew over him and he cracked open an eye, no longer able to see Dream. Instead, his vision was blocked by a red cape, Techno positioning himself between the two of them.

“Well that’s going to be a bit of a problem, Dream,” Tommy heard the click of a crossbow, weapon at the ready, “because this guy’s with me.”

There was a moment of silence, tension heavy in the air. Dream cocked his head to the side, unbothered with the statement. “You sure about that, Technoblade?”

“I am sure,” he confirmed, “This is a— a business partner, and we’re working for our own mutual benefit right now. So I can’t really have you taking him away before I complete my objectives.” 

The next part was spoken softly, and Tommy was unsure if he was meant to hear it as Techno muttered to himself, “Before I get my revenge.”

Tommy let out a shaky breath he did not notice he had been holding, relief washing over him as Dream stayed quiet. His tension was replaced with something he almost considered to be hope as he looked to Techno, who stood tall in front of him, almost daring Dream to say anything on the matter. Was this it, then? Would they just be able to go around, would he just be able to go home?

“Unless, of course. You wanna call in that favor?”

Victory was short-lived, Techno’s words hitting him hard and stealing the air from his lungs as he realized what was being said, “What favor? Wait, Techno, what— what favor—?”

“Don’t ask questions, Tommy,” His tone suggested it was a game, as if it wasn’t Tommy’s freedom on the line, “the adults are speaking.”

_ “What _ favor?” Tommy repeated, looking between the two.

Technoblade liked to believe he had a rather good understanding of the intricacies of battle; he did not succeed in fighting purely on strength alone, supporting every swing of his blade with logical reasoning regarding his opponent’s most likely counters based on analysis of previous fights and decisions. And he had faced Dream before, in both the formalities of a duel and the chaos of revolution. He knew Dream would not call upon his favor, not for something so simple as getting this. That was why he was so casual with his reminder, grinning, almost taunting the other with the reminder.

There was only one problem with his assumption.

“Actually, Technoblade, you’re right. I think I  _ do _ want to call in that favor.”

This was not how it was meant to go.

Techno had to give himself credit, remaining calm and straightening his posture to tower over Dream. The other man appeared unconcerned with his attempt at intimidation, and voices whispered to Techno, calling for him to prove why Dream should be worried. His grip on his crossbow tightened, and he spoke carefully, “You sure about that?”

And Dream responded, carefree, “Very sure.”

“Really,” Techno pressed, putting on an air of doubt to disguise any apprehension. He studied Dream, trying to adjust his plan as he was torn between two beliefs that he did not think would be on conflicting sides, his loyalty and his word standing opposed. “This is what you’re gonna use your favor for? Me handing over the kid?”

Dream laughed, shaking his head, “Smart, trying to twist the wording of it. But no. This is what you can do for me, Technoblade: you’re gonna turn back around and go sit in Fundy’s ice cream shop for 30 minutes while Tommy and I head home. Get yourself a scoop, on me. Sounds good?”

“Techno—?” Tommy had moved to his side, trying to catch a glimpse of emotion on his ally’s face. A small bag was pulled out and Dream grabbed one of Techno’s hands, placing a few emeralds in his palm and curling his fingers in when Techno didn’t move. “Wait, you can’t just—”

“Well, get started on my favor, Technoblade.” Tommy flinched at a sudden grip on his shoulder, firm, but not enough strength behind it to hurt him. Dream gave a two-finger salute with his free hand, steering Tommy back toward the portal, “I’ll see you at the festival!”

Tommy looked back in shock, trying to catch Techno’s gaze, trying to find anything that would explain what the  _ fuck  _ was going on; was this intentional? Was he really just going to hand Tommy over like that? He— he couldn’t—

The last thing he saw was Techno lowering his crossbow before a hard shove sent him through the portal, stumbling. A hand grabbed his shirt from behind, keeping him on his feet as Dream followed him through to the Nether, the heat an unwanted familiarity. Tommy stood still, eyes unfocused as he questioned, attempting to process what just happened,

“...what the fuck was that?”

Dream stepped up beside him, unperturbed, “Consequences.”

“No, seriously, don’t try to be all ominous and shit right now, what the fuck,” Tommy said, turning on him, “what the _fuck_ was that, what— what favor?”

“I’ll tell you when we get home,” Dream’s calm contrasted Tommy’s anger as the masked man began to walk, only stopping when he realized he was not being followed, “Are you coming?”

“Of course I’m not coming with you!” he was shouting now, turning back toward the portal, “Go fuck yourself, Dream, what the fuck? Fuck you!”

Why couldn’t he bring himself to go through? Dream was closer than he last remembered when he spoke again, tone light and contrasting the hand that returned to his shoulder, grip harder than before, “Come on, Tommy, you don’t mean that.”

He couldn’t help the laugh that escaped, laced with panic, “Oh, I really do.”

“Listen, Tommy, I helped you.” Tommy opened his mouth to argue, but Dream was quicker, speaking over him, “Sure, I came because I heard you were breaking exile. But do you really think you can trust Techno once he’s finished using you?"

He turned to face Dream, defending his ally in outrage, “He’s not using me.”

“He just needs, what, one more weapon back?” He continued, “And what has he done to help you get your discs back?”

Tommy froze. Logically, he knew Dream was aware that they were trying to get his discs back; he wouldn’t have brought up getting one from Skeppy if that wasn’t the case, his threat to burn the disc would not have been so effective. But to hear the details of his and Techno’s alliance laid out so bluntly in front of him? Another laugh escaped, trying to cover his alarm, “That’s not, I mean, we’re—”

“I’m not angry at you for trying to get your discs back, Tommy.” The grip on his shoulder loosened from an oppressive hold to a comforting hand, and he leaned into the touch that had made him flinch only moments ago. Dream continued, voice gentle as he explained, “But he handed you over without a fight. I’m just worried that you’re staying loyal to someone who doesn’t have your best interests at heart.”

“And you do?”

“Tommy,” he made eye contact with the mask, and could almost picture the man behind it, eyebrows drawn together in concern, gaze deceptively soft, “I might be the only person who does.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> when you're really good at a math problem but then the teacher mentions a second variable you didn't know about


End file.
